Handsome Devil

by Ava Argent

  Handsome Devil

  by Ava Argent

  Handsome Devil copyrighted October 2013

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is intended for Adult Audiences. It features graphic language and sexual encounters that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files in a location inaccessible to minors.

  Cover design copyright 2013 Saranna DeWylde

  First Edition October 2013

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Dedication:

  To Saranna DeWylde: You encouraged, cheered, threatened, and supported me even when any other sane being would have given up. This is for you.

  To my parents: You never thought it was weird when I daydreamed and you thought it was funny when I told you some off the wall story. You raised me to reach beyond conventional borders. You have my eternal gratitude.

  Chapter One

  I used to think that all a couple needed to make love work was poetry and promises.

  I was wrong.

  I've had plenty of both. Badly ripped off sonnets from old Will Shakespeare (seriously, the man wrote way more than Romeo and Juliet. Take a hint.). Guarantees that ranged from turning my library books in on time for me to allusions to marriage. None of that worked out.

  Instead I have a bar and more ex boyfriends in my past than I care to admit.

  Oh. I also have an ex girlfriend. It was an experiment that worked for a while. She was great. Me? Not so much.

  The bar is more like a pub. I traveled a little instead of going to college full time. One thing I could nearly always count on was an Irish pub to hang out at, no matter what city I happened to be in. Don't ask me why that is. It just happens.

  I liked that warm, living room feel you could get in a pub. If you stay in one long enough you'll walk out with a friend. A big difference from the hooking up I was becoming bored with in bars.

  So here's what happened. I was with a few people. Okay, a lot of people. Don't judge—it's the 21st century. Then I got burned out. Burned out led to jaded. Jaded led to cynical. You get the idea.

  Now I'm back in the good old US of A, and it's not so bad. I've got friends, a business, and a past. I make money enough to live and I've taken a break from romance. I think the guys in my age group need to mature a little before I dip my toe back into the waters.

  Or I could go for an older guy, if I could ever find one that wanted more than a one night stand or a substitute daughter. Kind of over the one night stand thing and my father is very much alive.

  Dad is the promises and poetry type. The difference is that he makes it work. Sets a pretty high bar for his kid, if you know what I mean.

  Which reminds me. I have to Skype him. I'll do it when I'm closing up for the night. It would be one in the morning my time, but he'd be up and he likes to keep me company via video chat. It's good.

  It's Tuesday night and the regulars have done their rounds. Mostly working class and retired guys who want a beer and a chance to shoot the breeze. A couple of the ones who work odd hours will probably head out to karaoke later. Have to keep themselves entertained somehow in the wee hours of the dawn, right? I am already gathering the glasses and getting the computer tablet set up and ready to go.

  My name is Jules, by the way. Judith A. Jenner. Don't ask me what the A stands for—if I told you I'd have to kill you.

  Really.

  Because my mom is kind of important. Dad's your average fifty-something American joe. Mom is a little bit more complicated than that. Let's just say that even if I don't whack you, there are more than a few people who can—and will.

  I know. I try not to think about it either. 'Mom's gonna kill me' is not a phrase lightly uttered in my family.

  I wipe down the counter and call out the hour to let the customers know it's time to be moseying on. I'm known for letting one or two stay over past closing time, but tonight I'm just not into it. I want to get the metal shutters rolled down over the windows and the place put to rights. After I talk to Dad I am going to surf the internet or watch a movie. You know, single girl stuff. There might even be ice cream involved.

  Whoa mama, am I a hot-to-trot lady.

  I shake my head at my own thoughts and wave at the last few guys that meander their way out. I grab the keys from the hook next to my mini fridge and follow Dobs, one of my regulars, keeping up the small talk while I'm at it. These are good people. I get a crazy or a drunk here and there, but mostly I've got a decent clientele who just want to hang out for a while and socialize.

  I lock up quickly. I'm not one of those people who leaves things to chance. When I say I lock up, I mean it. There are two deadbolts, a chain, and a key pad in addition to your standard door lock. Those kinds of precautions have been drilled into me since I was old enough to talk. My first word was 'careful'.

  You laugh, but it's true. That's how often my dad said it. I was kind of a handful as a kid.

  I'm keying in the last of the activation sequence when my mobile starts to ring. Elvis and his “Big Boss Man”. Dad's always been impatient when it comes to me. It's kinda cute.

  I dig the phone out of my jeans' pocket and look at the display with my father's handsome mug flashing on the screen. I accept the call and hold the phone to my ear. “Hey Dad. I was just about to get online--”

  “Where are you?”

  My brows shoot up to my hairline. “At the pub. What's wrong?”

  “Are you closed up for the night?”

  I haven't heard him sound this stressed since—a cold trickle drips down my spine. “What's going on, Dad?”

  “There's a new bounty on your head.”

  Shit. This is what happens when your mom is a badass. Everybody wants a piece of the action. I stride out of the small foyer, slamming the inner door shut and hitting the button on the wall next to it without even looking. The faint whirring of triple-enforced shutters rolling down fills the air. “How much?”

  “Enough to give me nightmares,” my father barks. “Get the hell out of there and follow the plan.”

  There is always a plan. There has always been a plan. There are plans for plans for other plans that go wrong. It's a fucked up universe I have to deal with sometimes.

  I kick a chair that's half out from under a table, pissed that my internet surfing is going to take a backseat. Is one night ogling Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon too much to ask? Exactly.

  The chair jumps and there's a cracking sound followed by a skitter, and the chair collapses, missing a leg.

  Frick. I guess I forgot to temper my strength.

  Another thing that my mom passed along.

  “I'm on it,” I tell Dad briskly, still glaring at the remnants of my chair. “Are we going to rendezvous?”

  “Not this time. This shit is blowing up bigger than an implant on a Playboy Bunny.”

  Dad's a little crusty. Ex military. It happens.

  “I'm doing containment before your mom finds out what's going on and it r
eally hits the fan.” I can Dad huffing a little and the faint echo of footsteps. “Goddamn stairs,” he mutters under his breath. Then, “Betty's got your detail.”

  Betty is my third oldest sister. I've got nine. Nine crazy, sociopathic sisters, and Betty's the meanest one of them all. Think shoot first, shoot again, shoot a third time for fun, then maybe thinking about asking a question before changing her mind.

  She loves me like a rabid chihuahua on steroids. If I hadn't learned to beat her up when I was eleven, I'd be literally stuck in a harness and a leash so I don't get lost on the way to the bathroom.

  Is it my fault I was born the baby? Nope, but I am reaping the benefits and the misfortunes all the same.

  It occurs to me that if Betty's on my six, this is a lot more serious than anything I've dealt with in the past. “Who did what and when?”

  “Just follow the plan, Jules.”

  I turn—my pub is an L shape—ready to head to the back and grab my purse—and I freeze.

  “Yeah, Dad,” I say through lips that suddenly feel cold. “I'm on it.” I slowly lower the phone and slide my thumb over the disconnect button.

  He's standing just inside the wide doorway that leads to my very expensive pool table. He's watching me without blinking, the kind of gaze you see on a predator that knows he's a lot bigger and stronger than you. Even in the mood lighting I can see that his eyes are a supernatural shade of blue. It's deep and dark, which is not unusual in itself, but the gold flakes that shimmer in the pupil sure as hell are. Looking into his eyes is like looking into deep space.

  If space was blue.

  He's pretty. He's got the kind of face that should be delicate but isn't. It's just...finely formed. Stone-cut jaw. No facial hair on his cheeks, not even a hint that it can grow. He has a straight nose and full lips.

  I think this is what Romans are supposed to have looked like. I don't think Romans would have had short hair and long, sideswept bangs with pink streaks in the black, though.

  He tilts his head, still not blinking, as if he's interested in the fact that I'm checking him out. What, like I'm not going to? There is no way he's a forgotten patron. I would have noticed him walking in.

  Or maybe he assumed I was going to run screaming for the hills. Like there's anywhere to really go.

  I'm not going to ask how he got in. I already have a pretty good idea.

  He's just so still. It's like he's not really breathing. He's standing with his arms at his sides, his hips more narrow than his shoulders, legs spread apart just so. He's a runner and, unless I miss my guess, he's used to taking people on in a fight if he needs to.

  He's covered from chest to toe in black, the kind of suit somebody in an action movie would wear if he was about to blow a place up.

  “You didn't cry for help.”

  Holy mother of god, was that his voice? It was freakin' deeper than Alan Rickman's!

  I lift my chin and wet my lips. Hey, I'm calm, not stupid. He's not here to stack chairs. “I don't think I'll need to.”

  He blinks for the first time, his lips quirking in a kind of nonsmile. “Oh?”

  I step to the side and he tracks the movement, still not twitching. That's not humanly possible. If his eyes hadn't already given it away, that much would have sealed the deal. “Just one question,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Are you an assassin or a bounty hunter?”

  The nonsmile grows but doesn't show teeth. That's more than a little creepy and definitely not reassuring. My heart rate picks up.

  “Does it matter?” he rumbles.

  “Well,” I admit, “no.”

  I slap at the underside of the bar, hitting the hidden light switch with life-saving accuracy.

  The place goes pitch black—except for his eyes, two orbs of gold flecks in blue oceans floating in the darkness.

  Oh fuck.

  He can see in the dark.

  The orbs rush at me with preternatural speed. I barely have time to duck and grab the stool next to me. I spin on my heel and bring it up as fast as I can, slamming it into his body with all my considerable might.

  The sound is indescribable, except it is more like glass shattering than wood. Splinters blow back in an invisible cloud and shower my face. I automatically turn and try to protect my head, but something catches me in the cheek. There's blood. I don't have time to think about it.

  I can't see his eyes, so he must have closed them, and I attack, reverse mule kicking into the inky black. I connect with what feels like a freakin' brick wall, the jolt going all the way up to my lower back. Holy hell!

  But I hear a grunt, which means surprise, and I'm not going to let that pass me by. I pull my leg back before he can grab my ankle—Dumb Heroine Move to Avoid Number One—bounce on a heel and then kick him again, harder.

  Furniture crashes. I turn to run because I know this room like the back of my hand and I'm not sticking around to duke it out with a guy who nearly broke my ankle with his rock-hard bod.

  A growl fills the room, starting low and growing to such intensity and volume that fear slices through me for the first time.

  Oh my god.

  It's a Ferissian.

  I grab the coat hook drilled into the paneling along the bottom of the bar and yank. There's no hang time between pull and fall. The second I trigger the mechanism the floor disappears out from under me. I slip through the emptiness maybe two meters into the room I paid a lot of money to build, landing lightly in a practiced crouch. My weight triggers the second mechanism and the trapdoor slams shut above me, titanium bars sliding home to lock him out and me in.

  Glow in the dark footprints light up to lead me to the exit, and I dash to it with cold sweat beading on my temple.

  A Ferissian? Who the hell has Mom pissed off?

  All of my training and practice runs kick in. I reach the door and pull the bar from its place without a second to lose, throwing myself into the tunnel beyond that cost even more than the trapdoor to put in, the knowledge of who is chasing me nipping at my heels.

  Ferrissians aren't a species that you send in to pick up groceries. They are a warlike people that don't know when to say die. Think Captain America mixed with Wolverine and throw in a hunting instinct. They're the soldiers, the warriors, the go-to humanoids for a good old fashioned manhunt. But they don't work for just anyone. They're that kind of powerful. If you have a Ferissian on your tail, you are as good as caught.

  Or dead.

  I speed up, knowing he's not too far behind. The Terminator has nothing on this guy, because Arnold needed machinery and he doesn't. Hell, werewolves would look like pussies compared to a Ferissian, if werewolves were real.

  And I hit him with a chair.

  I've got to get out of here.

  My legs and lungs are pumping in time with each other. My night vision isn't particularly good and I have to rely on the low-tech glowy sitckers on the floor that fly by. A toy section supermarket buy could mean the difference between life and death or dismemberment for me, and I've got a freakin' Ferissian hunting me.

  I follow the line for what seems like hours, but it's only twenty-two seconds. My emergency duffel is on the shelf where I set it over a year ago and I snatch it up without pausing. Money, papers, clothes, everything I need is in there. More importantly—so are my extra motorcycle keys.

  At the end of the tunnel is a set of wooden stairs. I push my arms through the duffel handles, creating a weird kind of backpack. The metal hatch is already unlocked—removing the bag released the counterweight, so nothing stands in my way as I sprint up the steps and plow through the door into the night.

  It's a courtyard formed by three buildings pressed up against each other. Ninety percent of the people that walk by have no idea it's there. There's an old wrought iron gate and privacy wall that's tucked away from the street. I'm not ready to bet that the Ferissian is one of that ninety percent though. He knows, and I probably only have seconds before he comes running. My pub is on the other side of the
street, beyond the building behind me, but for all I know Ferrisians have ears like bats and he heard the opening clang.

  My bike is sitting next to the hatch, half hidden by the vines and pots of baby trees. I run over, keys falling into my hands via convenience zipper I sewed into the bag myself. I have my leg slung over the saddle and the keys in the ignition before you can say “proud Mary” when a tile crashes to the ground inches from my leg.

  I look up from the terracotta remnants to the roof—and there he is, four stories above my head, staring down at me. I know it's him even despite the fact that I can't see his eyes. No human in their right mind would be up there.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck. He has a mini transporter.

  I twist the keys.

  The engine guns, and then a hand comes down on my wrist like a vise. He yanks me off of the bike hard, wrenching my arm in the process. He pulls me so forcefully that I fly across the courtyard several feet beyond him, stumbling and ducking into a roll. The duffel hampers me from rolling all the way and I skid to a halt on the asphalt.

  His boots thump and suddenly I'm being lifted into the air via duffel, so high I'm freakin' dangling with my toes barely touching the ground. My arms are trapped by the handles.

  Hoisted by my own petard.

  He twirls me—holy shit, he's only using one hand?!--and I see him in the harsh light of the apartment entrance lamp. There's his set of stars-in-space eyeballs, freaky as ever, glowing just a little bit brighter.

  He smiles, and shows me just what he was hiding before.

  A set of really, really sharp teeth. White, straight cat-teeth, not so different from a movie star's except that he could rip my throat out if he wanted to.

  My eyes go wide—I've never seen anything like it—and he hums in dark approval. It's like a purr. Or a growl.

  You know what? I'm a fish person. I don't have time to make Nat Geo comparisons.

  And Mama didn't raise no punk.